She was standing in the
garden, brushing the tops of the tulips. She looked like some sort of
celestial being in that white gown, almost floating above the path
which was surrounded by perfumed flowers of every kind. He had given
her that garden, so that she would be happy. In truth, she didn't
care whether or not she had a garden. It didn't make him
come and take her away, so what was the point?

She fingered the petals
of the roses, their sweet scent wafting into her nostrils, not
letting out a sound or moving when she felt a large hand on her
shoulder. She had long stopped doing that. Her heart was pounding
hard when he spoke, though, as if it wanted to jump out of her chest
and fly away, away from him.

"The garden … you
like it?" Gentle, caring it sounded like a lover's voice, but she
knew better, resisting a shudder.

"Yes, milord, very
much." She answered softly, turning to face him.

Her eyes met his
shade-protected eyes, willing there to be defiance in them, but not
enough for him to beat Pazu. She couldn't bear hearing his screams
again, moaning into her pillow, until he returned, panting and
covered in blood, and drawing in close to her sobbing form,
whispering words of comfort until she fell asleep from exhaustion of
crying.

Her mouth gaped
stupidly at the thought of this man, this man, who had killed
thousands, destroyed towns and cities, and beaten her beloved Pazu
until he could no longer speak.

Yes, she had been able
to see him, once. He was a gibbering mess from all the beatings, and
the smell of urine hung about him. She had shamefully recoiled, too
used to the expensive cologne of Muska. He had recognized her,
though, whispering her name as if it were a prayer, and sobbing,
Sheeta had taken him in her arms, kissing his neck fiercely and
stroking the back of his head until she had to be pulled from him and
dragged away. His whispers would haunt her forever, knowing that it
was all her fault for what had happened to him.

"Sheeta, Sheeta,
Sheeta …"

"Sheeta? Lusheeta,
are you alright?" Muska's voice cut through her thoughts,
sounding concerned, but she knew better, oh lord, did she know
better.

After she smiled (her
heart not quite in it) and nodded, his hand slipped from its place on
her shoulder to her waist, curling around it and pulling her towards
him.

"Shall we go back
inside, darling?" His voice was husky in her ear, heavy with
suggestion, and Sheeta felt bile rising in her throat, but she
managed a perfect smile and they headed back towards the palace.

That same smile had
been practiced time and time again over the last six years; she
probably could've done while she watched people dying painful and
horrific deaths, laughing heartily and clinking champagne glasses
with Death himself.

She let him unclothe
her, without hitting him or running away like she had the first time.

She let him kiss her
passionately, caressing her and murmuring her name over and over
again.

She let him climb on
top of her, as she looked persistently toward the wall, his groans
almost drowned out by the buzzing she forced herself to hear.

And during this, all
she could think of were these small words, repeated over and over
again:

"What a sick
comedy my life has become …"

*

When Muska first came
into power, he ordered the robots to destroy the ancient tree and
burn all the roots which were slung about in the throne room. Sheeta,
still trembling from the shock of Muska's triumph, swore she heard
a scream of something old, something other-worldly. She had curled
herself in a tiny ball, wondering why she was still alive.

He had ordered the
nobility in the world underneath Laputa to come up above and swear
allegiance to him, King Muska. The earth down below was shuddering
from the horror of being forced into submission, and no one dared
defy this mad new king, who, when making speeches to the unworthy
people of the world, would make words such as 'power' and 'new
world' sound so terrible, so frightful.

This new world he spoke
of was degenerating into something worse then what it had been.
People starved, diseases spread, and anyone with money, desperate to
get away from the horror that surrounded them, paid themselves into
Laputa, which was beautiful, and violently different, it was hard to
believe it floated above the moaning land below, sick with hunger and
putrid diseases.

Muska was satisfied
with the ways things were; if so many people were hungry and sick,
they would not be able to form rebellions, and bring him down. But
even if there were such things, there was no doubt they would be
destroyed immediately. But this knowledge, this extra precaution was
comforting to him, and made him feel safer.

With all this power,
comfort and luxury, Muska felt there was something missing, and his
thoughts wandered to Sheeta. He had kept her on an impulse, thinking
that she might come in use later. She was pretty, in a quiet way, her
soft gray eyes and dark hair tempting, sweetly.

At that moment, light
filled his mind, and he realized what he was missing; a wife, a
queen, somebody to stand beside him and share his nights. It was true
Sheeta was young, but in a few years, there would be no disapproval.
After all, she was the Princess of Laputa, so it would only make
sense if she were to become Queen.

He suddenly took a turn
to a less attractive idea; what if she wouldn't comply? Despite his
power and appeal, she was awfully stubborn – and in love with that
silly fool, Pazu. He had tried to save her, in vain, winding up in
the dark dungeons of Laputa, so deep down below that light was a
foreign idea, seemingly made up. It clicked in his mind; if Sheeta
would reject him, defy him, he would torture Pazu himself, allowing
her to hear his screams.

His hands folded
together, he smiled smugly, leaning back in his chair. Yes, it would
be perfect, and he would become the ultimate power, sharing the glory
with his magnificent kingdom, all of whom would bow to him as he
walked by, including Lusheeta, and his throngs of supporters would
cheer:

Long live King Muska!

*

Sheeta (who Muska
persistently called Lusheeta) was seventeen when she was ordered to
marry Muska. Full of fire and defiance still, she refused, saying she
would rather die. It was unlikely she would ever forget the smug
expression on his face, not once faltering at her blunt refusal. Her
hands flew up to her mouth to stifle the scream that was building up
in her throat when he told her of Pazu. She had assumed everyone was
dead, but the thought of Pazu alive made her want to exclaim in joy
and cry in horror. Muska's heavy hinting of Pazu's torture if she
would continue to refuse him was likely, especially in Muska's
unstable state of mind.

She had swallowed
slowly, only prompting the lump in her throat to choke her, a tear
down her cheek. She turned away, not being able to face his horrible
grin, and murmured something about 'thinking about it'. This
seemed to satisfy him, and he left, the click of the door music in
Sheeta's ears. When the footsteps had faded, she began to scream at
the top of her lungs, tearing down the pretty lace curtains, pushing
over the desk, spilling ink onto the floor, pulling books from their
shelves, and throwing them down with a violence which wouldn't have
been out of place in a battle. She tired quickly of her tantrum, her
hoarse screams fading into hiccupping sobs, falling onto the ground
and beating it weakly. She soon succumbed to sleep, and she dreamt
about the garden, and the tree, and the robot she and Pazu had found,
all those years ago.

*

She was a pale bride,
looking washed-out and thin, and terribly out of place in the
grandeur of the church, but all the lords and ladies gasped and
gushed anyway, whispering what a beautiful, lovely bride she made.
Hearing this, Sheeta almost wanted to snort, but remembering her
current position, returned to her somber sulking. Muska (she refused
to call him King, even it was only in her head) watched her with
hawk-like eyes at the end of the aisle, almost expecting the slight,
doe-eyed figure to bolt at any moment. As much as she wanted to, she
knew she couldn't for Pazu's sake, and as slowly as she could,
she walked towards Muska, towards her dim and unwanted future.

'I do's said with
blushes and nervous stumbles, shaking hands slipping rings on
fingers, awkward bumps and coughs to find each others lips … that's
what Sheeta expected on her wedding day, if it came. A childish
embarrassment, but full of light passion and secret longings; this
wedding (if you could call it that – could it still be a wedding if
wasn't consensual on both sides?) was stiff, cold, and forced.
Forced by her, forced by the witnesses, who knew it was fake, and
even forced by Muska, who looked like he wanted to crush something.

And her wedding night!
Where to begin? She hadn't thought that far in her silly girlish
wedding dreams, but she had a fair idea what was supposed to happen,
and dreaded it, more than anything. So when Muska had turned to her,
eyes hungry and sickening, Sheeta began to yell profanities at him,
biting, kicking hitting until he stepped away, hair falling into his
eyes and panting. She froze mid-insult, knowing what was coming, and
in a violent fit of desperation, threw herself at his feet, crying
and begging until he kicked her, an expression of disgust on his
face.

"Compose yourself,
silly girl. You are a queen now." And with that, he left the
tearful, afraid little girl, door wide open, and soon, she heard the
shattering screams of her Pazu, and Sheeta tried, moaning and
sobbing, to bury herself in the cold stone of the floor.

Upon returning, ready
to taunt Sheeta with the blood that splattered his suit, and the
sobbing cries that could still be heard, he was surprised to see
Sheeta, no longer crying, lying asleep on the floor, still in her
wedding gown. She looked beautiful, and Muska almost felt a softening
in his heart for the exhausted girl. Gathering her in his arms and
relishing the feeling of her beating heart against his chest, his
eyes widened when, in her unconscious state, she murmured something
in her sweet little voice, and cuddled up closer to him.

Something that night
stopped Muska from waking the sleeping girl and having his way with
her, and even he is unable to explain it today. Sheeta had no
knowledge of this, and when she awoke in a nightgown next to Muska,
who was absently stroking her bare arm and staring up at the ceiling,
she assumed, with an angry blush, that she had been taken advantage
of while she slept. Too prudent to ask Muska, she rolled over,
escaping his spider-like touch.

*

Over the next few
years, nothing improved in Muska's political system, him still
being the maniacal dictator he had always been, and the world
struggling to pick itself up from the depression it had suffered, or
in his twisted relationship with Sheeta.

When she had found out
about the hungry, diseased people of the world below, Sheeta begged
Muska to release the suitable antidotes and sufficient food supplies,
both of which he had, but he stoutly refused, saying they needed to
stand on their own two feet. Frustrated and seeing no other way, she
tried a different sort of persuasion; seduction. To her immense
surprise, Muska responded, and in return for these 'favours' he
would send supplies down to the world.

Sheeta found herself in
moral dilemma; she felt better helping others, but getting that help
… she shuddered. It was the only thing she had to offer as a
person, and it sickened her to do so.

Muska, psychotic as he
was, decided Sheeta needed somewhere to escape to; somewhere she
could spend time alone. That was when he ordered the robots to begin
making the garden. Sometimes, in her dreamy, nostalgic moods, Sheeta
had told him her vivid memories of the garden she and Pazu had found
(although she was careful not to mention his name), how beautiful and
sweet-smelling it had been. It was times like these that made Muska
feel jealous, that mere flowers and trees could make her smile,
really smile, but he couldn't.

Oh, of course he knew
she faked all her smiles, laughs and conversations with him; he
wasn't completely blind. He would have preferred it though. If
somehow, he thought that she really loved him, that she had married
him by choice, that she was here, not because he would torture Pazu
if she was wasn't, but because she truly wanted to be. It
made him angry that she didn't mean any of it, but he knew he
couldn't have her any other way. She hated him, passionately. And
he … he didn't know what to think of her. He didn't allow
himself to think that far, he would get out of control and that would
be the end of it.

But he did know this;
he would spiral down into nothingness, dark emptiness filled with
fear and horror if it just meant he'd get to go with her.

*

The garden was ready
within a week, already blooming with beautiful and strange species of
flowers, shaded by enormous trees where trilling birds made music in
impossible harmonies, and colourful insects enjoyed the floating
aroma of the delicious flowers.

Sheeta looked at it
blankly. It was beautiful, yes, but everything was beautiful here;
Muska, the noble folk, her. All beautiful people, dressed in
beautiful clothes, living in beautiful quarters, eating and drinking
from beautiful golden cups and silver knives and forks, while
laughing, talking, smiling beautifully. She thought to Pazu. He
certainly wasn't beautiful, and never had been. He was locked away
in ugliness as she was locked away in beauty, and beaten when Muska
felt she deserved it. But he had something she didn't in the
stifling confines of Laputa, and longed for desperately.

Freedom.

To even taste that word
on her tongue made her shudder with delight. To be living simply in
her old valley with Pazu, happy, laughing real laughter, not
the buttered up pretty one that she used so often these days. They
had both dreamt of Laputa all their life, this mysterious, floating
land of treasure and beauty and enigma, but now, as they both found
themselves here, trapped in cages, hers gilded and his rusty, they
wanted nothing more than to get off it, and never come back or think
of it again.

Slowly, Sheeta turned,
pretending to pick a flower, noting the guard that had been assigned
to watch her was not there. Perhaps Muska 'trusted' her enough to
be on her own. She pressed her nose to the perfumed flower to hide
her wide smile. Then, without any sort of warning, she began
sprinting toward the edge of the cliff where a cloud drifted lazily,
and laughter bubbled up her throat and out her mouth as she leapt
from the green grass into the arms of possibility, just for a moment.
Then she dropped, falling quickly, the beating her heart nearly
blocked out by the deafening wind rushing past her ears, but not
quite.

And while this was
happening, everything going past her at infinite speeds, Pazu
suffered his last beating, feeling his heart slow. So in that tiny
moment before Sheeta hit the ground and Pazu's head lolled, one
word was in their heads, screaming and whispering, violent and calm,
loving and hating:

Freedom.

*

A/N:
Thanks for reading, lovely person. I'd love you a ton more if you'd
review. :D

Um, yeah, just to
clear a few things up; I estimated Sheeta and Pazu to be around 15
when the movie took place, and Muska in his late 20's , early
thirties. So yeah, I'm not sick, I promise, I'm just exploring
possibilities. :]

The author would like to thank you for your continued support. Your review has been posted.